


day one: memory

by debilitas



Series: 31 days of apex [1]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: It’d be a fond memory— if it wasn’t weighed down by the one of Nik at his side. Strong fingers digging into the muscle of Makoa’s shoulder as he struggled to keep himself upright, leaning in close when they spoke.
Relationships: Makoa Gibraltar/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Series: 31 days of apex [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811971
Kudos: 10





	day one: memory

There’s a bottle waiting for Makoa by the time he secures a seat at the bar. Bulk of his thighs hanging uncomfortably off the sides of the leather stool, he watches expert hands pour him a glass of liquor.

Witt must remember his drink of choice from his party last summer. It’d been an all-day affair, nearly every fellow legend melting in the heat and drinking ‘til they couldn’t see straight. Makoa remembers stumbling around a manicured lawn with his closest friends, laughing at jokes that weren’t all that funny. 

It’d be a fond memory— if it wasn’t weighed down by the one of Nik at his side the entire time. Strong fingers digging into the muscle of Makoa’s shoulder as he struggled to keep himself upright, leaning in too close when they spoke.

Elliott offers a sympathetic look when Makoa tells him to leave the bottle, before returning to charming a patron out of her latest paycheck. He’d been one of the few to receive an invitation. Makoa wasn’t. 

The amber liquid burns going down his throat, making him wince. A year long dry spell really had lessened his tolerance. 

Makoa eyes his distorted reflection in the drink, and frowns. He looks like _shit_. Like a man that’s received the worst news of his life, and hasn’t slept good since.

Scratch that. He got the news six months ago, giving him just enough of a wait that it almost didn’t feel real. For so long he didn’t have to give it a second thought; the date so far off it didn’t occupy the same space that he did. 

Until tonight.

He thinks about Nik in an obsidian tuxedo, expensive fabric hugging each muscle he worked so hard for. Dark brown eyes gazing into another man’s, full lips twitching with that crooked smile before sharing a kiss.

He thinks about how _I do_ would sound in the same voice that once spoke so sweetly to him, and takes another drink. It burns a little less this time. 

Elliott saunters back, after he’s had enough to warm his belly. Props himself up against the counter, cleaning an empty glass with exaggerated movements of an ivory cloth. He looks more like a bad actor trying to land the role of bartender than concerned friend.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks a few seconds too late.

“Nope.” Another swig, and Makoa averts eye contact. He wants to drink and he wants to sulk, stewing in his own sadness until last call.

Elliott lowers his voice, as if not wanting to be heard. “About him, isn’t it?”

“Ah. No offense, Witt, but ya thought we was brothers ‘til catching us in the coat room.”

Makoa can’t help but smile. He and Nik, tipsy, still firmly anchored in the honeymoon phase, had snuck off early into the party. After a half-assed survey of the house they disappeared into the back bedroom, thoroughly ruining more than one blazer.

Elliott had walked in — without knocking, in their defense — yelped in surprise, and completely froze. Brain foggy and fairly preoccupied, Makoa had watched the gears in the man’s head turn as he tried to process the scene before him.

“Jump in or leave!” Nik called from under Makoa’s form, after Elliott lingered for far too long.

That seemed to jumpstart him. He stammered out an apology, and moved to shut the door, only to peek back in.

“Do you guys really—“ Was all he managed to say, before being struck by a thrown pillow. 

Elliott huffs, scrubbing the glass harder. “Honest mistake.”

Makoa merely shakes his head, and they transition back into an uncomfortable silence. Elliott slips seamlessly in and out of the part of Mirage when approached, serving overpriced drinks with confidence that’s contagious.

Nik never did like Mirage, ‘cause he had no patience for anything disingenuous. He liked things direct, honest, and real. Saw all the showboating and poses as lies made to sell merchandise. 

And, because all of that, or maybe ‘cause he grew up crushing on athletes instead of celebrities, he was immune to any of the man’s charm. Called him Sparkles, but only when he wasn’t around. 

Makoa, though? He always had a weak spot for the pretty boys. So he can see right through Mirage, to the not-so-pretty things Elliott hides underneath. 

Elliott suddenly hits the counter with both fists, and it's only then that Makoa notices the crimson flesh of a maraschino cherry stuck between his teeth. He always did love fruity drinks.

“Fuck him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck him,” Elliott repeats, pouring some of the liquor into his own glass. “So what if Nik’s got some guy? Marriage is an inst— in— Prison.”

He takes a swig, and his entire body shivers in its wake. Makoa laughs, really laughs, for the first time all night.

“ _Jesus_ , Gibby,” he wheezes. “What was I saying? Oh, yeah. You’re like, the best lookin’ guy around, if you don’t count yours truly. Got like, muscles. Huge ones.”

An uncomfortable pause, and a furrowed brow.

“Not that I look. You just…” Elliott’s expression contorts into one of discomfort, and he slumps against the counter, lowering his head in defeat. “This is so hard.”

“Nik didn’t leave ‘cause of me.” 

Technically, it’s true. Makoa takes another swallow of liquid courage.

“It’s the games, brah. Got sick of ‘em.” In a softer tone, he adds, “Guess I didn’t.”

Makoa knows he’s hiding himself behind a half-truth. Isn’t ready to admit that the arena was only the infection in a wound he’d left. Him and that damn bike.

Lowering his head, he offers a silent apology to Nik. Hopes with all that’s left of his heart that the other man feels it somehow.

When he moves to compose himself, the bar seems to come alive alongside him. The music picks up, deep bass shaking his bones, drowning out the sound of a sniffle. Clearing his throat, he watches Elliott drag his tongue across his top row of teeth, removing what’s left of the cherry.

Witt looks better like this: not airbrushed and put together, like he is on the posters. Hair product thoroughly exhausted from a day’s work, frizz has begun to crop up around the dark curls, sweat making short strands stick to his temples. Eyes a little sad, but still warm. Too tired to notice there was fruit in his teeth, or the mysterious stain by the top button of his shirt.

“You’re the real one, right?” Makoa asks, just to be sure. He’s been burned one too many times inside the ring.

Elliott pops his collar, lips stretching into a smug smile. “The one and only.” He tries to prop himself up against the counter with an arm, and misses.

Makoa watches him fall, landing hard on the tile floor. Promises himself he’ll help Elliott to his feet soon as he stops laughing. And that while he’s doing it, he’ll thank him, for providing the first _good_ memory he’s had in a long time.


End file.
